


Let us no longer live as strangers

by gishmi1ish



Category: Anne of Avonlea (TV), Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Femslash, Non-Canon Relationship, Slow Build, Work In Progress, but I think heavily implied by canon, historical femslash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7208180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gishmi1ish/pseuds/gishmi1ish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After rewatching the wonderful Anne of Green Gables CBC miniseries for the first time as an adult, I was struck by how wonderful it is, and also by how totally gay Anne is. Oddly enough, I don't want to write any actual Anne/Diana pairings --I suspect Anne did nothing more than fantasize about THAT-- but I was struck by the obvious love-hate chemistry between her and the headmistress Katherine in the Anne of Avonlea half of the series...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: The first farewell

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my high school BFF who (I still haven't told her) made me realize I was gay, and to all the teachers I've ever had a crush on, from my 6th-grade science teacher, all the way up to a certain Comparative Women’s Lit professor who once teased me about how deep my voice got when I had a cold (and haunted my erotic dreams for 3 semesters thereafter).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extensively revised from the version I originally posted here... Apologies to anyone who liked the old version better!

_O, Diana!_  
_Damson-eyed,_  
_Ebon-haired,_  
_Your curves enchant,_  
_Your lips, your laughter,_  
_A flower in which I am cupped_  
_And kept_

_Diana! whose golden arrow_  
_Pierced my side,_  
_Whose nets of belled silver_  
_Tangled these willing feet,_  
_As breathless we passed_  
_Through fern-scented groves_  
_‘Neath trees who stood_  
_With branches linked and linked_

_A kiss you bestowed, the last_  
_Upon my trembling mouth,_  
_Before you, marriage-bound, departed,_  
_And left me famished, haunted,_  
_A hollow ghost, against_  
_My window press’d,_  
_Looking up as if to ask the moon_  
_If she with her kind and gentle eye_  
_Looks down on you_  
_And loves you, too_

 

 

****

 

  
When Diana married, I thought I would be alone forever. I knew it down to the depths of my soul. Never had I known someone so dear, so loyal. And with the audacity of youth, I swore I would never give my heart again.


	2. Fortune favoring the brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the marvelous scene at the end of the school year from "Anne of Avonlea". And, I suppose, by the fact that I don't get out a lot.
> 
> For those who haven't watched the miniseries recently enough (by which I mean: in the past month), the scene in question takes place after the students have left for the summer, when Anne approaches Katherine in the morning room to make one last overture of friendship.

It begins, as many of my stories seem wont to, with my temper.

  
Perhaps it is the heat, or the scent of the lilacs taunting me from outside, or a surfeit of relief from having survived the term against every stacked odd, or perhaps it is simply Miss Brooke herself, a force of nature to fray the nerves even of a saint.

  
Which, of course, I am not.

  
"Katherine Brooke," I snap, as the last filament of my patience wears through. "Whether you know it or not, what you want is a darn good spanking!"

  
The words seem to throb and echo throughout the room. I think we are both a little shocked. Her pulse beats in her throat, and the color rises in her cheeks. I step back, already anticipating her attack, although it appears that she has been surprised almost into laughing. But no, no-- her years of faithful vigilance against any expression of pleasure stand her in good stead. She pinches back the laughter with her lips.

  
"It must have relieved you to say that," she says, not quite so scissor-quick to cut as I've known her to be in the past. I suspect her of enjoying the novelty of having been put in her place. Truly, I have never seen her fidget as she does now, full of a strange, almost mischievous agitation.

  
"I have wanted to say it to you for a very long time," I admit. Her suppressed merriment threatens to overtake her, but she rallies once more, wielding her scorn like a rasp, ready to shave me down to size.

  
"And who do you suppose would administer this punishment-- you?"

  
Spar with me, will she? Well! As if from a ringing distance, I hear myself assure her that it would give me great pleasure. A strange look passes over her face, one of --can it be?-- embarrassment, and I come abruptly, belatedly, to my senses. This woman, whatever I may think of her, is still my superior in this place. Oh, Anne, will you for once learn to hold your tongue?

  
"Miss Brooke, please forgive me for speaking so bluntly. I wish you no violence, to be sure. But,” I say, unable to help myself, “surely you know how terribly you try my patience!”

  
“I?” she asks, as if to say: the very idea! I grit my teeth.

  
“You treat me as though I have done you some great wrong. If that is so, for heaven’s sake, tell me so that I may make amends!"

  
I put my hand impulsively upon her, and for a moment she is unmasked, that mocking glint replaced by something fragile. Her expression is so transparent that I feel as though I have accidentally stepped in on her in the bath. The longing in her face, naked as a blade between us, pierces me through the heart more surely than any sarcasm of hers could ever have done.

  
I know that longing. I know it as I know my own name.

  
Shaken, I am too slow, and she snatches herself away. She stares at the window, her shoulders tight and her chin held high and angry, but I have already seen too much. I can see it in her fury at having exposed herself to me. My heart beats so fast I can feel it bruising itself against my breast. Here, perhaps, is the kindred spirit I have always sought. Here is someone in whose heart beats the same passion as in mine-- if only it could be set free! I hurry to her side and reach out to put my hand on her arm again. She turns on me, her mouth hard, everything soft and human locked away.

  
"Perhaps I misjudged you," I say. She raises a dubious eyebrow and says nothing, doubtless anticipating that the longer she lets me prattle on, the worse trouble I'll get myself in.

  
Nor is she half wrong, I think ruefully.

  
"All this time I thought you were a spinster by circumstance. I never dreamed that perhaps you chose to live alone. That perhaps, like me, you were simply waiting for the right person to come along..." Her eyes narrow suspiciously, and she casts a deliberate look down to where my hand rests on her arm. I leave it there and forge bravely ahead. "Do you know-- I refused two proposals this year? Good men, fine men, both of them-- but I knew I could never love either of them, not... not as a husband."

Her jaw clenches as though she would like to spit, or even savage me with her teeth.

  
"How nice for you, Miss Shirley, to be so popular," she says tightly. "I can assure you, however, that has nothing to do with me." I huff impatiently-- why must she make everything so crotchety and impossible?

  
"No, no, you think I mean to brag, but that's not my point at all. Can't you listen? There is no earthly reason why I should not have accepted either one of them. But I didn't love them, not-- not like they loved me. Why do you think that should be?"

  
"I'm sure I have no idea," she says, tucking her arms in front of herself protectively. I sense that I am losing her and say, in a burst of courage, "I did love someone once--"

  
Like turning out a lamp, the tension and curiosity go out of her; she thinks I am going to spin her a sad tale of a lost beau from whom I never recovered. I hurry on, chivvying the words past the old ache that rises up in my breast, "My best friend, my bosom friend, on the day of her wedding, I--"

  
But here I stop, finding to my great alarm that I have no words to express what I have never said aloud to another soul. Her lips twitch.

  
"Oh, she stole your sweetheart, I suppose?" she asks unkindly, and I am startled into a short bark of laughter. The hard lump of sorrow eases somewhat.

  
"My goodness, no-- Fred? Heavens, no!" I think of his gentle, placid, cow-like face and it starts me laughing all over again. Miss Brooke falters.

  
"What are you trying to say?" she asks, and there is something dangerous in her voice. Now it is I who falter, and avoid her gaze.

  
"I-- I felt as though my heart was breaking. I felt as though I had no hope left. I felt such utter despair that I thought I would surely die." There is a terrible stillness. I can feel her staring at me, but I keep my eyes down. I can barely breathe, I am so frightened.

  
"What are you saying?" she demands, and catches my arm up hard. I quail in the face of her fierceness, but she shakes me until I meet her eyes once more. “What are you saying?” I swallow dryly.

  
"I'm saying you should never give up hope," I say timidly. She snorts, and thrusts me away.

  
"I thought that might be it."

  
"No, listen, I--" I grab her hand, but she recoils from my touch.

  
"You wish to speak to me of hope?" she asks. "A dry husk of an old maid? Any hope I had is long withered on the vine.”

  
"Don't say that!" I cry, unable to bear the dark undercurrent in her voice. "It's not true--"

  
"There is nothing left in me," she says. "No hope of love--" her voice breaks, and I throw my arms around her to keep her from turning away again. She goes still as a stone, too astonished, I think, to try to pull away.

  
"No-- no-- don't say that," I beg her. "Don't say that.”

  
"Let go of me," she mutters, but there is no iron beneath it.

  
“I will not,” I say. "When was the last time someone held you when you were sad?" She doesn't answer. Presently I feel her shaking, rattled like a windowpane in a gale. She holds onto herself so tight, shedding tears as readily as a tree sheds blossoms. I reach down to guide her arm around me. “Shh,” I say, but in truth, she weeps without making a sound, as though even her sorrow must be knotted up on itself like a coil of rope.

  
"Shhh, shhhh..." I stroke her neck to soothe her, this woman almost twice my age --so fearsome for so long, but now so helpless in my arms-- and I do feel a surge of love for her overwhelming my heart. “You are not unloved--” I whisper, but she shakes her head.

  
"Never--" she grates, "I never--"

  
A minute or two passes before she wrestles herself back in line.

"I know you don't mean what you say," she says, in her blunt, standoffish way, wiping her cheek clumsily, as though hoping I won't see.

  
"I do mean it. Heaven knows you're too full of vinegar to be dry _or_ withered, either. I'm sure your hope is well-preserved, if only you go looking for it.” She gives a surprised sort of hiccough of laughter.

  
“Pickled,” she says, and I kiss her on the cheek in delight, but this was apparently the wrong tack, because she stiffens and goes dumb. Fumbling for something to say, I remember suddenly why I sought her out in the first place, and feel a fool.

  
"Won't you come with me to Avonlea?" I ask. "Please?" She shudders; shakes her head.

  
"You don't want me," she says wearily, as she gracelessly rubs her eyes. She seems to realize that she is leaning her weight against me, and tries to lean her body away. I tighten my grip, suddenly aware that although she is a sharp, narrow-looking woman, there are curves of flesh hiding beneath her dour black robes, curves which are pressed roundly against my own. I can feel my cheeks bloom red as the truest red roses.

  
"I do want you," I protest softly, hoping she won't guess my meaning-- and yet hoping she will. If not for my own heart, then for hers, at least, I must be brave.

  
She is silent another moment, and then, "No. Nobody--" I cut her off.

  
"I do." I pull away a little and try to look in her eyes, but she looks down. I put my hand on her cheek. It is still damp with tears, and my heart is pierced with sympathy. “Why should you think it so impossible?"

  
No response. She won't even look at me.

  
_Coward_ , I chide myself.

  
“All my life,” I say slowly, though I can barely breathe from the frightened drumming of my heart, “I have hoped to find someone who would understand in their heart what I feel in mine.”

  
Her eyes are on me now, filled with a quiet desperation beneath her darkened brow. They are the eyes of a drowning man-- save me, they seem to say, and how could I harden my heart against their silent pleas? Save me, oh save me-- and I lean my face in, as naturally as though I've done it a thousand times before, and carefully fit my lips to hers. She jumps, but does not pull away, and then she makes in her throat a sound that rends my heart, it is so full of need. I feel an answering whimper deep in my own throat, and with the arm I have still around her waist, I draw her close to me and lean in to kiss her hard, as though I were a boy, and she a young girl. Her hands clutch tightly at the fabric of my dress, and she-- Oh! my blood runs fast and hot-- she opens her mouth to me. If this what it is like to be a boy, I think wildly, no wonder they are so raucous all the time! Her lips, always before drawn thin as a pencil line, are now soft and sweet against mine, not thin at all, not hard, but lush-- gloriously lush.

I have heard and pretended not to hear unkind whispers about how a man would sooner take a block of wood to bed than Headmistress Brooke, but that just goes to show what doddering fools men are in the end. It isn't like that at all. Her mouth is the softest thing, and I am covered with gooseflesh suddenly, shivering and shaking as though I've caught a chill. I pull away. It is too much --entirely too much-- for any soul to endure. She is shaking as well, and she takes a long moment before she opens her eyes. She doesn't seem to know what to say, any more than I do.

  
"I'm sorry," I whisper finally, pulling back. "I never-- I shouldn't have--" I shake my head as I trip over my own tongue, unable to finish a sentence. Her face looks different. Softer, younger-- unmoored by wonder. I want to kiss her again, but all my courage is used up, leaving me confounded how I managed it in the first place.

  
"At a loss for words, Miss Shirley?" she asks. "Will wonders never cease?" She sounds more shocked than snide, however, for which I am grateful beyond measure.

  
"Wonders, indeed--" I say, and fall silent once more. I steal a glance at her. The color is still high in her cheeks. She looks away.

  
"Well," she says briskly, and takes a step back-- I catch her hands before she can get too far. "Perhaps some blood does run through these cold veins after all. Who would have guessed?" I laugh nervously, try to keep my voice light.

  
"I knew there would be! Do you know what gave you away? It was the absolute fierceness with which you played your role. The truly venomous old witches don't have to work that hard at it at all-- it's just in their nature, and they can't help it. But you went at it with such earnestness; such determination! I knew no-one could really be such a cold, unforgiving block of granite--"

  
“ _Thank you_ , Miss Shirley--”

  
"You know, I think it might be nicer if you just called me Anne," I say, "if we're going to be friends, after all." Her expression is cool as ever, but her fingers tremble.

  
"Are we, then?" I nod decisively at her.

  
"I think we'd better ought."

  
She gives a dubious, ladylike snort and looks away, but from her this is a veritable flood of agreement, so I forge on eagerly.

  
"And, if we're to be friends, you must see there is no possible impropriety to coming to visit with me over the holidays. I promise you'll love it there-- it's the most beautiful place on Earth. You won't even be able to help yourself.”

  
“Yes, I've read your stories,” she says impatiently.

  
“You _have_?” --but of course she ignores me.

  
"It sounds like a very charming place, indeed," she pulls her hands away from mine. "One in which I have no business. Besides," she adds uncomfortably, “I have work here to attend to--”

  
“Work?” Though I am all agape at her admission, I am still fit to argue. “What work do you mean?”

  
She hedges. “Well, the roof--”

  
“Bother the roof,” I cut her short. “Let me tell you, I have some experience with roofs, and you're better off leaving them well alone-- a woman of your age!”

  
This proves too much for her, and as she sputters, I loose my final dart.

  
"If you do not wish to come, you have only to say. Certainly, you may live the rest of your life bitter and friendless if you please!” I shush her as she opens her mouth to protest. “Only do me the courtesy of owning up to it being the choice you yourself have made. If you do not desire my friendship, you may say so, but to scorn me merely for offering it is cowardly-- and beneath you." Having stunned her into a temporary submission, I find I cannot stop. “Go on, and say it, then! Say you would rather be alone and miserable than spend a moment more in my company. Say that I was mistaken when I thought perhaps we were the same. Say that it meant nothing to you that I--" I stumble here, unable to go on.

  
She stands before me in mute agony.

  
"No? Nothing?" The fire races through me, making me bold as ever. I advance on her, every word a gauntlet thrown down. "No-- you're much too proud to be a liar, I know that much. Say you don't want my friendship," I demand. She sets her jaw in a hard, unhappy line.

  
"I don't want your charity."

  
" _Charity_?” I stand struck dumb with outrage. “You-- you-- I'll give you _charity_! Tell me, then-- tell me you don't want me to-- to kiss you again." She goes pale, and I grab her hands before she can back away. "Say it! Say it if it’s true!" Her eyes flicker down to my mouth, she shakes her head, tries to pull free, but I hold her fast. "Say it," I demand quietly, as I draw close. "No? _Charity_. I'll show you charity." I can feel the catch in her breath, and it is almost enough to make me lose heart. But then, her eyelids lower in what can only be anticipation. _Oho_ , I think. I boldly point my face up to hers and capture her mouth with mine, alight in the certainty that she will not resist.


	3. The collusion of queens

Someday, perhaps, I will learn to stop and think of the consequences of my actions. I do not know how old I will be when that happens-- perhaps when I am an old maid, so stiff in my bones that merely to move a cup requires great forethought.

  
For now, such wisdom is beyond me, and thank all the heavens for that.

  
I kiss her with all the ferocity of an attack-- not an attack against her directly, but against the vicious pessimism that still has her in its grip.

  
At first, it is as though nothing else exists-- the feeling of her face close to mine, our breath mingling-- the taste-- these sensations are the only world I am aware of. I do not pull away from the swell this time. I am ready for it, eager, and let it catch me up and carry me along in a gleeful, headlong rush. _This_ , I think, is what I was made for. This, the _closeness_ of her face, and the boldness it inspires in me-- as though, like a warrior now past Troy’s walls, I can roam freely without fear. I kiss her, suck upon her, mumble her name against her lips just for the heady taste of it on my tongue: “ _Katherine_!”

  
For herself, she says nothing, but the small gasps she makes are intoxicating, and spur me on to kiss her ever more breathless.

  
Finally she wrests herself free and holds me off.

  
“What?” I say, “what--” blinking as though I have just been pulled out into sudden sunlight.

  
"Someone will see!" she hisses, quite out of breath from the ferocity of our kissing. I shake my head and attempt to bring her close again.

  
"No, no-one... they've all gone home!" She holds me off, unyielding.

  
"It's not safe here," she insists. I glance over uneasily at the admittedly grand sweep of windowglass.

  
"Where, then?" She shakes her head, baffled.

  
"Where?"

  
"Yes-- where can we go, then?"

Never for a moment does it cross my mind that perhaps the best course of action is to simply desist right then and there.

“Perhaps we could go to your room--" I falter, realizing how forward of me it sounds. She considers it, though. I try to be patient, but it's quite impossible-- I am fairly buzzing with the urge to put my mouth just _there_ upon her chin. "What's the harm in it?" I wheedle. "I-- Or rather _we're_ not leaving until tomorrow. Why shouldn't I take this opportunity to finally see with what opulent splendor you deck out your rooms?"

She snorts, but I continue, warming to the subject now.

"I've always imagined that you had fine cream-and-gold-patterned wallpaper, rich ivory silk draping the windows, and a dark mink coverlet for your bed-- over which, of course, would hang a canopy of deep, twinkling blue, like the stars just coming out at night."

  
She mutters dire sarcasms all the way up the stairs.

  
In truth, I am eager to see the inside of her bedroom-- and not just for the privacy it affords. I know almost nothing of her personal tastes or hobbies, and I am curious as to what I might learn from her living quarters.

  
As it turns out, the only clue her room has to reveal is its very lack of personality. When she holds the door open for me -- mockingly-- I almost can't bring myself to step inside. It is large enough, certainly-- there is ample room for the bed, the wardrobe, and the dresser, as well as a small wooden table and chair over by a window that overlooks the garden. The walls are stark white, the coverlet a faded navy blue, and the only thing to see on the bare floor is a pair of tattered grey slippers, tucked beneath the bed. I feel my throat get tight, and I don't quite know what to say.

  
I turn and regard her nervously. She has tucked her hands safely away inside the folds of her great, black sleeves, and her gaze is challenging.

  
"Not quite what you had imagined, Miss Shirley?" I shake my head to clear it, but she sees it as an answer. "A teaching career doesn't seem so glamourous anymore, does it?" I watch the bitterness settle back into the pinch of her face. I see how it wearies her.

  
"If I kiss you again, will you finally call me Anne?" Oh my, how she blushes!

  
"I'm afraid I can't even offer you tea-- we would have to go down to the kitchen," she says, doing her best to pretend she didn't hear my question.

  
"That's very kind of you," I say, " _very_ kind. But all I want is right here." My voice is rich with insinuation, and I am frankly a little shocked at myself. Surely some demon is possessing me. My blood runs hot and all I can think of is pressing the length of my body against hers once more. I move for her, but she stumbles back, away from me. and I draw up short. Her chin is high as ever, but she must clasp her hands together to hide their shaking.

  
"We shouldn't," she whispers. I hesitate, but something in my belly won't let me stop.

  
"Katherine Brooke, neither you nor I are known for only ever doing what we _should_."

  
"Yes, but--" I shake my head.

  
"But nothing," I insist. "Come-- I thought you were a modern woman." She quirks her lips at my teasing, but still she draws away. I ache. "Please," I say softly. She closes her eyes, and I can see the way she sways towards me. " _Please_ ,” I say. “Katherine.” Her eyes stay closed, a furrow upon her brow. I go to her, soft and silent, and take her hands once more.

  
Her eyes are still closed when she says, "Anne, I know that I have done nothing to deserve your kindness." I am taken aback by her frankness, and do not know what to say. The light in the room dims as a cloud passes over the sun. In _lieu_ of speech, I turn her palm to face me and bring it up to my mouth. Tenderly, I place a kiss into the palm of her hand, and then fold her fingers closed around it. A tremor goes through her-- I can see it shiver her like an aspen.

  
"I don't believe that," I say, and then cover her mouth gently with my fingers when she goes to protest. "But-- let us say you are right. For the sake of argument-- of which I know you are overwhelmingly fond." Wicked girl that I am, I cannot help joshing her. "Let us say you have treated me unkindly, unmercifully, and with unrelenting cruelty. Let us say that." She makes a small, scornful noise and opens her eyes. I cheerfully ignore her. "Even if that were true, what matters more is this: I will forgive _everything_ if you will only please let me kiss you again." She looks at me askance, and moves her head irritably to free her lips, as if she has just now noticed my fingertips upon them.

  
"You embarrass me," she mumbles. Now it is my own turn to scoff with disbelief.

  
"Do you think this is easy?" I demand. "Do you think I am not embarrassed? To say nothing of fear!" She frowns, and I cluck at her. "Katherine, I have never in my life been more terrified than I have been today."

  
"Surely-" she starts to chide me, but my words are tumbling out like a river once more, wild and unstoppable.

  
"It's true!" I tell her. "Feel for yourself how my heart is beating-- it's true!" And with that, I take her hand and press it fast upon my heart. She makes the most strangled sound in her throat, but does not pull away. My face burns, and my heart leaps against my ribs as if it were trying to batter its way straight out of my chest to place itself in her hand. "You must feel it?" I whisper now. She is staring in horror at her hand upon my bosom, and she looks so pale, I worry she might faint. I don't know what will happen. I hang there, waiting, my heart thudding away so hard, and all I can hear is the voice in my head saying over and over that I don't know what will happen now.

  
"Anne," she says finally, in a voice that has been stripped of pride and now has nothing left to hold it together. "You are so young and-- and fierce, and I cannot--" the tears are coming again, in great shuddering gasps that she can't hold back, "I cannot--" She puts her hands over her face and starts to crumple, and it is all too easy to catch her by the elbows and guide her back a few steps to sit on the bed. I sit close beside her and snuggle my arm around her waist, pleased when she does not shy away.

  
"Are you not fierce, yourself? Miss Katherine Brooke, are you not the fiercest woman ever to walk these halls?" She shakes her head miserably against my shoulder.

  
"I am only afraid," she says. "All my life, I have only been afraid."

  
"Well," I say decisively, "The only solution for that is to face your fears." She looks unconvinced, but I press on. "In small steps, of course." Perhaps she is listening? I continue, "Every day-- starting today-- you should do one thing that you are afraid to do. Only one, so as not to overwhelm your delicate constitution--" oh, that does make her laugh a little, at least! "But even so, with one each day, before a month is up you shall have done no less than 30 things that you are afraid of. Can you imagine it? Can you even think of 30 things to fear?" She is feeling herself enough to remark dryly that she is sure she could if she tried.

  
"That's the spirit!" She pulls herself away a little and wipes her eyes.

  
"If I didn't know you to be intelligent, I would say you were a fool." I pin her with a steely gaze.

  
"And yet I have sitting before me my heart's desire, so perhaps I am not such a fool as all that."

  
"I won't listen to such nonsense," she says sharply, but her cheeks are flushed as though maybe she doesn't mind so much after all. I put my hand up to her face and stroke the smooth line of her hair, as if I were smoothing back strays wisps-- as if a single lock of hair would ever dare escape from the tight knot into which she has it imprisoned. I am watching with pleasure my hand upon the darkness of her hair, but then I glance at her face and see that she is watching me, with that naked look of longing back upon her face. I smile and caress her cheek, her hair, her neck, and she hesitates for only a moment before turning her face to press it into my hand. I think how lovely her mouth is when she is not disapproving of anything. My hand slides back behind her head of its own accord, and, her eyes closed, she turns her face into the soft skin of my forearm. Another tiny hesitation, and then she presses a kiss against the veins that fade away from my wrist. It is a faint, tremulous ghostling of a kiss, but even so, I catch my breath at how warm her mouth is against my skin.

  
"There," she says, her eyes still closed, her voice just a hint unsteady. "That was my one brave act for the day."

  
"Oh, Katherine," I breathe, transfixed. Her mouth quivers like she's pleased, despite herself. Sweetness unfurls inside me, desire so hot it burns everything else away-- a flame hotter than any mere spark of temper. This thing that takes hold of me now is a beast far more dangerous than anger. For anger can always be mitigated --even if only belatedly-- by remorse. But this desire I feel cannot be dampened by anything so pitiful as remorse. What _remorse_ should I feel, it demands of me.

There is a roar of blood in my head, loud as the sea. My hand tightens in her hair. She squeals once, like a little girl, as I tilt her head back and throw myself upon her, but then our lips find each other once more, and that dizzying tide of passion rises up and swallows us both.

I taste her, devour her, feel her open mouth gasping into mine, feel her hands come up to touch my waist ( _somehow, I realize, I have climbed bodily atop her_ \--) her hands so gentle, (-- _rucking and probably ripping my skirts to sit astride her lap_ \--) but full of a glorious heat that I can feel right though to my bones (-- _my bottom no doubt sticking up absurdly_ \--) and then I feverishly delve my tongue deep inside her mouth, wanting, somehow, to be inside her, and she shudders beneath me and her hands suddenly pull me tight down against her and she holds me as though she will never, ever, ever let me go. There is a faint sound of ripping cloth as I wrap my thighs wantonly around her hips, my bootheel tangled up in a petticoat, and though I try to reach back to free myself, I succeed only in almost toppling us both off the bed. I break free of the kiss with a cry of frustration and she snatches her hands away guiltily, as if caught stealing a pie.

  
"Oh, darling, no, it's just-- won't you help me, please?" My lips are bruised and buzzing, and the words don't seem to want to come out properly. She sees the predicament my foot is in, and starts shaking so hard that for a moment I think she has begun crying again-- but no, she is laughing, smothering it just the same as if it were sobs of pain, and I am glad, because she is laughing so hard that she doesn't stop to think about it, she just reaches down and unhooks my heel, and then frees my ankle, which had somehow gotten trapped as well, and then she has half-unlaced my boot when she draws up short and stops laughing and looks anxiously into my face.

  
"Don't stop," I say softly. "I can't tell you how much I hate mending." Her face is quite red. I slide off to the side and sit beside her and turn so that my foot can rest in her lap. I smile michievously at her. "See? Already, you are exceeding your quota of brave things for the day. I knew somehow you'd turn out to be a quick study!"

  
"Impudent girl," she mutters, and swats me gently on the knee. It is charming to see her try to be playful. She is a bit stiff, to be sure, but I am not worried one jot. I know she will come round soon enough. I wiggle my ankle. She eyes it suspiciously.

  
"You're quite strong, you know," I remark, waggling my foot idly. "When you had me round the waist, I felt quite as though I wouldn't be able to get away, no matter how hard I struggled."

It is delightful beyond words to see her turn redder and redder. I let my foot lie still, and lean in to whisper wickedly, "If, that is, I'd had a mind to struggle."

She shakes her head and turns wondering eyes upon me.

  
"You have lost all fear of me, haven't you? How did that happen? Were you never afraid of me at all?" I consider it.

  
"Of course at the very first I was, a little. But-- I suppose there was always something that drew me to you, despite it. I couldn't help but care for you-- no matter how prickly you were. I think even then, something in me knew that we were meant to find each other." Katherine sniffs skeptically, and begins plucking at my shoelaces as if just to have something to occupy her hands.

  
"Sentimental rubbish," she says in the general direction of my toes.

  
"Now the other," I say, and give her my left foot. She hesitates only a moment, and unlaces that one as well. I kick off my boots gleefully and then, stockingfooted, kneel before her. I gaze up at her mischievously and reach beneath the hem of her skirt.


End file.
